Fiona let me move in here after I left Watford. Simon and I didn’t want to live together; that seemed premature—even though we’d shared a single room for eight years. Maybe that’swhyit seemed like a bad idea. Some distance seemed prudent.
Still . . . I didn’t expect to be sleeping in my aunt’s flateverynight. I didn’t expect to become so accustomed to the night bus back to Chelsea.
Simon needed time. He needed care. He still startled at bright lights and sudden noises. And prolonged eye contact. He’d get jumpy when we were alone together. He’d actually shudder if I touched him too softly—and not a good shudder. (My kingdom for a good shudder.)
On the worst days, on the even worse nights, I used to think about all the bad things that have happened to Simon—just the ones I know about. And then I’d wonder about all the terrible things that have happened to him that Idon’tknow about. Twenty years of bad things. How long would it take for those painful memories to die back? Or, at least, to wither?
I’d wait.
I was going to wait.
The neighbours are tired of my music again. They’ve come to the door this time. Well, they can push right off—James Blake is a Mercury Prize winner, and this song was written by Joni Mitchell, surely Canada’s finest. They think they’re tired of this song? Once I figure out the magic, I’m going to loop the same two lines again and again:
“You’re in my blood, you’re my holy wine. You taste so bitter and so sweet.”
That’s the part that hurts the most, and I’ve decided that ithelpsto hurt the most. It sort of maxes out my nerve endings.
They’re knocking on the door.Fuck off.
More knocking.Seriously, fuck off.
I turn up the music. I have to use a spell to do it, because the speakers are already at their limit.“These go to eleven!”
The neighbours are really banging on the door now. I should spell off their hands. I’m not even going to answer the door—I’ll just spell their hands off from here.
Wait . . . They’ve stopped.
Have they stopped?
There’s no knocking . . .
No knocking . . .
I think they’ve given up. Good. Go back to your flat, and get used to this. This is our soundtrack now. Oh—my favourite part is coming around again. Sing it, James.
“You’re in my blood, you’re my holy—”
Knocking! Fuckingpoundingon the door!
I jump off the couch. My head spins. I give myself a moment. More bloody knocking. I plow over to the door and yank it open. My fangs might be out, I can’t be held responsible.
Simon Snow is standing there.
About to knock again.
His hand drops.
“Baz,” he says. He looks down at me. “You haven’t changed.”
SIMON
Baz is still wearing the clothes he had on yesterday. He’s wrinkled looking, and his hair is stringy. “What?” he says. I think that’s what he says. It’s so loud inside his flat, I can’t hear him.
“What?” I shout.
I can’t make out his next sentence.
“What?” I say again. “Why is it so loud in there?”
